Welcome

Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets (WFOP) is dedicated to promoting awareness and appreciation of poets and poetic heritage in the state, mentoring and supporting local poets with regular readings, workshops, conferences and other events, and advocating for the study of poetry in our schools.

Membership is open to residents and former residents of Wisconsin who are interested in the aims and endeavors of WFOP.

Member benefits include:

Conferences: Spring and fall conferences are held around the state. More info available here.

Bramble Lit Mag: The Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets creates a quarterly members-only lit mag called Bramble. Bramble is guest-edited by a series of guest editors. See latest issue here.

Calendar: Our primary outreach is our annual Wisconsin Poets' Calendar. Members and non-members can submit poems for consideration. We publish hundreds of poets. For many it is their first-time being published.

Contests: WFOP sponsors annual contests for members and non-members. See what's open for submission here.

Member Pages: Members are eligible for a personal page on the WFOP website, which may include contact info, bio, publications, personal website link, sample poetry and chapbooks or collections.

2018 Triad Prize

She dreams in those quiet hourswhen staff and residents are undisturbed.She gathers her blanket around her arms,covers most of her face, protects her feetwith the elastic spa socks that someone—who? gave her.This room looks like all the others:two beds, two dressers, two lamps, two tvs,one clock, one window, one closet.There are one hundred seventy four squareson the floor. It’s linoleum, brown with tiny lines.She doesn’t know how long she’s been here.She doesn’t know where she lived before.She doesn’t remember her childhood,except for a color: lavender.Was that the color of her room all those years ago?She dreams colors, though she can’t name them.In her sleep, she recites J. M. Barrie’s Peter Pan—loves to fly over Never Never,thinks Smee is an ok dude,never met a crocodile she could trust.She’s not sure if she’s asleep when she’s awake.Smells emanate from down a hallway.Sleepwalking to them affords giftsof food, drink, mainline talkers, crybabies,rattling dishes, televised game shows.Sometimes she sings out loud.“Day do run run run.”“Round the ball clear down the field boys.”“I saw you standing alone,without a dream in your heart.”There’s a man who shares her room.One of the beds, dressers, lamps, tvs are his.He smiles sometimes and calls her “Sweety.”Most of the time he wanders and wonders.He’s her new friend.“Husband” a nurse called him.What does that mean?

my mother was crazyabout flea-banethe tiny daisy but not really a daisyflower I see on my hike todayit's end of July hotand I wait for sweet berrieslisten, all these piecesdo fit togetherthe way strawberriesthe wild onespicked themselvesinto her palmand the flea-banemade her drop downto caress their miniature livesI believe she knew their languagesmall talk reallybut her heart savvyin the how and why and where

We first saw her nestingalongside the air conditioner unither hind legs walking in placelike a band majorette.She was small for a snapper.Returning here where she herself hatched,generation after generation her descendentshere before this house stood,here before this community planted its roots,here before human kind walked this land.

After a few hours she slowlytraipsed to the corner of the garage,her neck peeking out from withina carpet of scraggly poppy foliage,the bright red flowers contrastingher bullet grey armor.Five minutes later she was gone,mission accomplished.

Within minutes at the end of the driveway,my wife exited her car, walkedinto the middle of the roadand began directing trafficlike an off duty police officer.“Get a towel!”We gently started to nudge the snapper into a grocerybox, one with handle slots and an ill-fitting cover,the towel over the turtle’s head—she temperamental, her necklashing out from side to siderapid bursts—lightning chargedlike some prehistoric dinosaur.Fortunately, her smaller soccer ball sizemade this an easier task.Once snuggled inside the box,the cover loosely attached—we loaded our cargo in the green garden wagonand began a slow journey creek wardwhere months hence her clutch will follow.

Rubber gloved, I grab the boxfrom the bottom, the mildew mud smellof creek water in the air—gently turning the box to ease her out

the towel loosely swaddled around her body—there we left her with hopes she would travelwest rather than retrace her stepsback to the road and the distant cornfield.Exhausted. The running water would provideher relief.

Later that evening I covered her nestwith a disk golf basket turned upside downstaking it to ward off nocturnal predators.How I remember last springwhen I was startled from deep sleepby the hellish screeches of raccoonsfighting for newly hatched turtle eggs.The next morning broken shellslay scattered across the hilllike locust tree blossoms.Yes, this is Nature’s way—but caretakers we remainfor even the least of these—the snappers.

It was nine months after your passing, Dad,your death that came too suddenly,too soon,that Ma found your P-E-N(4 Across: a three letter word for writing implement)on the carpeted bedroom floor,beneath the headboard and framethe movers dismantled,placed on the truckwith the packed boxesfor her move to W-I-S-C-O-N-S-I-N(21 Down: nine letters for 30th State).She shared with me the anger you carried for D-A-Y-S,D blank blank S,(the period between sunrise and sunset, plural)over the loss of your two dollar crosswords pen.You refused to use a pencil,no indecisive gum rubbing erasures for Y-O-U(pronoun, used with reference to the person addressed).Being your oldest child,a son,I know I carry the blessings and the curses.I know this two buck pen in my handgives me access to puzzlesI never desired to solvebefore your death.But now I grasp this scepter,that somehow you have passed to mewithout words,for some way of making our family legacyI-N-D-E-L-I-B-L-E(something that cannot be removed).